


The Pull

by seven (sevenpoints)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Prostitution, Rough!Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenpoints/pseuds/seven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was what Sam had been saving himself for: the sweet, sweet release of all the tension rucked up under his skin from having to fuck those useless johns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pull

He loved the pull.

It wasn't the usual raw deal. The johns never hit him, or tried to stiff him. He was strong enough, dangerous enough, that he didn’t need to be afraid.

The main problem was frustration.

Most times, he got the smaller men, the ones who got one look at his chest under the ragged cotton of his shirt and could barely manage get their wallets out before they were following him into the alley and spreading their legs. Sometimes they took care of the prep, but most times they wanted him to do it, babbling about his huge hands and long fingers (which he covered with a condom before sticking them anywhere). He’d start out slow, with one digit, warming them up until their breath caught and he bent low to ask:

“ _Do you want the pain?_ ”

Odds were good they did. No one ever approached him looking for “gentle.”

He never gave the bottoms dirty talk. He wasn’t good at tone control--the boredom always snuck in around the edges--so he gave them grunts and hisses instead, let them believe they were wringing the sounds out of him, that he actually liked fucking them that much.

Afterward they were always awkward, struggling to fasten wrinkled pants while they watched him toss away the empty condoms, tucking his flagging erection into his jeans.

“ _Can I see you come?_ ”

“ _No._ ”

He never had to tell them twice.

Some nights, though, he’d luck out and pull a big guy looking for someone he could ream open without remorse. It was best when they wanted a suck and fuck, gripping fistfuls of his hair while they gagged him before yanking him up to shove him against the wall and split him. Neither he nor the johns ever bothered with prep and so it hurt, every single time, a ragged burn that shot up his spine like electric shocks, consuming his senses until it was all he could do to keep breathing and ride the lightning.

They didn’t care if he got off and probably would’ve loved it if he didn’t get hard, but he couldn’t help it; he’d be struggling to turn his moans into whimpers while his erection swayed heavily between his thighs. There were times when holding back seemed impossible but he managed, focusing on his breath and the bricks an inch from his face until the john behind him drove in for the last time.

And when he got back to the motel, there was Dean.

Dean, who would be waiting for him, wanting to know how much he’d earned. Dean, who would leave him standing in the middle of the room while he sorted the cash into neat piles by denomination, splitting it into what would go in his money clip and what would get stashed in his bags. None of the cash ever went back to Sam. That was fine; Dean always settled their bills and anyway, Sam didn’t give a fuck about the money. He just stood there, swelling inside his jeans, waiting for Dean to finish.

He could keep it together up until Dean put him in the shower and knelt behind him while Sam scrubbed himself diligently, doing his best to ignore the throbbing between his thighs. The inspection was usually cursory; Dean could tell at a glance whether or not he’d been fucked. Most days, he hadn’t, and Dean would take care of that in a hurry with nothing but a quick slick of soap to ease the way, but when he had, _fuck_.

“One of ‘em reamed you good, huh Sammy?”

He hummed an affirmation, focusing on keeping still while Dean spread his cheeks and ran his finger over his hole, still stretched and swollen from earlier.

“ _Listen to you, you whore. You needed this, didn’t you._ ”

_Not from you,_ he’d thought.

Dean pushed his finger inside, tinny shower water doing little to ease the way. The pain was tiny, harmless, and he chewed his lip to keep from asking for more. “Did he even use lube? Do you _ever_ use lube?”

“No,” he replied. Two birds with one stone.

Another finger, and just a bit more pain. “Was there just the one guy?”

He ducked his head under the spray to rinse his hair, wishing he could switch it to cold without chilling his brother. “Yes.”

He pulled his fingers out and Sam swallowed a whimper, a real one. “Did he make you come?”

“No.” The denial made his mouth water. “I just got hard.”

Dean scratched his hole then, sudden and sharp and this time Sam couldn’t swallow his whimper. “For him?”

“For you,” he groaned. “You know that. It’s always for you.”

That got him dragged out of the shower and shoved onto his bed without a second to dry off, the cold covers a shock to his hot, wet skin. He shivered and lay still, waiting for it to warm up while Dean took his time towelling himself.

He wondered what it would be. His hand? His belt? Sam loved the belt; he could get hard just watching Dean thread it through his jeans the morning after. He could see Dean weighing the options as well, eyes falling on different objects around the room until they settled on the ancient television on the dresser, or rather on the rabbit ear antennae standing on top. They were only attached to the base by a single screw; a few twists with the point of his butterfly knife freed one of them so Dean could weigh it in his hands, flexing to check its suppleness while Sam sweated cold anticipation into the sheets.

He moved to get on his hands and knees but fell back at a command, settling on his back with his legs spread in hopes that Dean wanted to fuck him first. That hope quickly dissolved into waves of sweet, tingling heat as Dean began whipping him, on his belly and down fronts of his thighs, the fiery blows landing so close to his erection that he wanted to jump screaming off the bed. Instead he just dug his hands into the covers and kept perfectly still, trusting Dean not to hurt him more than he wanted. It was a sharp, stinging, maddening pain, the kind he wanted to claw out of his skin until he’d scratched himself raw, but all he could do was take it and gasp in voiceless, keening cries.

“Quiet,” Dean ordered and Sam struggled to obey. He knew it was for the best, knew that if Dean allowed him to make any noise it would burst out of him in a roar and all of it would end.

A series of slow, deliberate strikes left stripes inching up his thighs. He’d been staring at a water spot on the ceiling, tracing its border in an attempt to keep calm, but when Dean paused he broke his meditation to look at him questioningly. Dean raised his eyebrow and ran the side of the antennae up and over Sam’s balls.

The idea sent his eyes rolling back in his head. When Dean asked, “Do you want it?” he could only nod, unable to speak with his lower lip sucked in between his teeth.

The whipping started and it wasn’t pain, exactly, not the deep annihilating pain of getting kicked or punched. It was more of an idea, _Dean is whipping my fucking balls_. His brother could damage him so much if he wasn’t careful, and he _was_ careful, but it was still enough of a threat to start ripping away his control. He needed to be still more than ever but he was wrestling with the impulse to twist in on himself and couldn’t keep from writhing, hips rocking up to meet the blows.

He was so caught up that it took him long moments to realize the stinging blows had stopped, leaving behind a flush of heat that billowed into his skin and stayed there, like a sun burn. He blinked, and knew his pupils must be blown wide because it hard to focus on Dean’s face. His brother was sweating, panting, lips bitten red from his efforts to stay focused, to aim the blows correctly, to keep from hurting Sam more than Sam wanted to be hurt. He licked his lips, wanting to say something, thank him maybe, but Dean spoke first.

“Hands and knees, Sammy.”

Yeah, they could talk later.

The blows came again, but different: Dean was striking him with the knob at the tip of the antennae instead of the side, so instead of stripes it was sharp, precision points of pain that made him squirm until his throat hurt with suppressed moans. Dean zeroed in on one spot on his left buttock, stinging the same spot over and over until Sam’s breath shuddered out on the edge of a groan and then he couldn’t stop the sounds, high, breathless whines that burst past his clenched teeth and the last ragged edges of his control.

The antennae clattered to the ground and then Dean was on him, hands all over the backs of his legs while his mouth latched onto the weal on his ass, sucking even more blood to the surface to bruise him, really bruise him, so that he’d have at least one mark to show for tonight after all the lighter marks had faded. Dean sucked and licked his way to his center and his hips jerked, humping air as Dean settled over his hole, tongue stabbing deep and strangely cool compared to the fire in Sam’s skin. Another breath and Sam would be begging, demanding, _fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me_ , but as always Dean was a beat ahead of him, rising on his knees and shoving his cock in a long, solid push. He’d slicked himself at some stage in the proceedings but Sam was still tight enough and sore enough for it to hurt and it was _perfect_ , a deep ache and smooth thrusts instead of tearing fire and fear. He drew his knees closer together so he’d be even tighter, squeezing Dean’s legs between his own so he could feel his brother’s strength, the way his thrusts rippled through his thighs and on down his calves, _perfect, perfect, perfect_ , every single time.

“Come on,” Dean urged. “Show me why they pay you so much.”

He groaned and squeezed up tighter, thrust back harder.

“I’ve been hard all fucking day thinking about you out there.” Dean squeezed his hips, adding a few more bruises, before letting go with one hand so he could rake his nails across Sam’s belly, reigniting the weals there and making him yelp. “All those johns looking at you, waving their money, thinking it means they can have you, when really they’re just getting you warmed up for _me_.”

This was what Sam had been saving himself for: the sweet, sweet release of all the tension rucked up under his skin from having to fuck those useless johns. He braced himself to fuck back as well as he could but his hands slipped in the damp bedding until Dean had him crowded up against the cushioned headboard, the softness a stark contrast to getting fucked into a brick wall. One of Dean’s hands was roaming again, stroking over his ass and on up his back to grip his shoulder and tug him back onto Dean’s cock. He knew he wasn’t being good, wasn’t rippling and fluttering and fucking back, but he knew that wasn’t what Dean really wanted, anyway.

“Come on, Sammy.” The hand on his hip slipped down to curl around his thigh, perilously close to his erection, heavy and throbbing from being teased all day. “You don’t have to be a good little whore and make sure I finish first.”

Trying to ignore Dean’s words was like fighting the pull of a drug; Sam wanted to hold on, make this last, make Dean fuck him for hours until he was too sore to move, but the idea of release sat there, tempting, too tempting after hours of unsatisfying fucks and the endless torture of Dean’s attention. One stroke from Dean and he was gone, the entire day’s pent up frustrations bursting out of him in white hot release echoed by Dean’s climax deep inside him, filling him up like no one else had, like no one else ever would.

They were both useless afterward, dazed and fucked out and exhausted, barely able to crawl onto the other bed and sprawl on top of the covers, too sweaty for closeness but unwilling to separate before they finally passed out, shoulders touching and heads tilted together, breathing each other’s breath.


End file.
